


banter on a ride out

by sweetindulgence (sweetdefault)



Series: Yautja Tales [4]
Category: Predator Original Series (1987-1990)
Genre: F/M, but that's okay because so is the author, in which the yuatja is a walking disaster, updated rating because of ch2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:01:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24540490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetdefault/pseuds/sweetindulgence
Summary: The contract was a set up.
Relationships: Yautja (Predator)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Yautja Tales [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773715
Comments: 19
Kudos: 30





	1. i know you're lying

**Author's Note:**

> these two are listed in my notes as "contract killers with a history of friends with benefits who are definitely more than friends with benefits denying they are more than friends with benefits"

In the City of Stars, Andromeda system, the dark streets of planet _1406b_ are mostly empty. A lone craft hovers down the road, drifting through decrepit neighborhoods in the outer residential zones until it hits the back alleys. Inside the craft, with her restraints digging into her flesh, the human stares at the darkness where she knows the second prisoner is. Up till now, the ride has been unusually quiet, but the time for peace is at its end—When the craft reaches its destination, there won’t be time for talking.

“Songbird.” The woman’s voice is blunt as she calls across the craft. Her brown eyes narrow at the chirrup-filled reply. It takes a moment for her translation software to boot up and input the words into her neuro-circuits.

 _“Wondering when you’d say something.”_ The clicks are as chipper as they have ever been, but the dim green glow of dried blood on the other prisoner hints his experiences have been far from pleasant.

Edge looks to the side. There is a divider between the back transport the two are contained in and their captors piloting the craft in the front. “Do you know where they’re taking us?”

 _“No.”_ The sigh that follows is exaggerated and almost annoyed. The massive silhouette of Songbird’s figure shifts in place. Edge hears him try to snap his restraints, only to give up and flop into his seat with a chirp of annoyance. _“Guess we messed up big, huh? They’re going through a lot of trouble for a Bad Blood and a cybernetic.”_

“That Bad Blood and cybernetic are the only ones aware of Hchrouhh’s involvement in the deaths of two aspiring political figures.” Edge corrects him out of habit, her gaze narrow as she scans the back of the craft once more. It remains too dark to see much, but she imagines it empty regardless. A thought crosses her mind; she shuts her eyes, “No one else took the contract, did they? No one you know of?”

 _“They thought it wasn’t worth their while. Clearly missed out on this great escapade.”_ Songbird whistles at the end.

“We were set up.” Edge asserts. "Hchrouhh's making us take the fall for our clients' deaths."

_“Mm, that sounds right. Funny how that happens when our contracts line up.”_

“You shouldn’t have taken it.” The cybernetic says. Her wrists hurt from where the bands of veritanium cut into her flesh.

 _“Forgive me when I say that’s a load of cjit.”_ The Yautja across from her huffs loudly. _“I don’t go out of my way to intrude on your contracts—”_

“A lie.”

_“And if I did—I wouldn’t pick one intentionally targeting your client—”_

“Another lie.”

_“When have I ever lied to ya?”_

“You want the long answer or the short answer?” The woman purses her lips. She exhales softly and calms herself ignoring the Bad Blood’s response. As far as she is concerned, nothing Songbird says should ever be considered _truth._ He lies as much as the next and for good reason—in the two’s industry, facades and falsehoods are a must to ensure the hit is carried to completion.

Songbird trills at her. _“C’mon, like you haven’t lied to me before.”_

“I am a cybernetically-augmented human who kills for a living. All I do is lie. I didn’t deny that—”

 _“Sure sounds like you’re insinuating I’m the problem. Cetanu forbid I lie occasionally! But I swear by the Black Hunter, Edge, I’m telling the truth.”_ the Yautja tries to lean forward but the restraints hold him back. He growls softly and chirps a long complaint under breath before speaking up. _“I enjoy seein’ you as much the next sain’ja, but I know you can only handle so much Songbird in one evening.”_

“For a moment you almost made a point.” Edge is blunt as she eyes his silhouette. “Can you say anything without it being an excuse to flirt?”

 _“Miss a moment with you? Never.”_ The chittering that follows indicates his laughter, and then it grows quiet again.

The hover craft passes by a light source and a crack of light shines through long enough for her to get a good look at him. The sight isn’t pretty. Songbird fares worse than her. Her capture was quick once her ambushers discovered her body could be overwhelmed by electricity. In comparison, the Bad Blood appears to have fought to unconsciousness. His face is bloody, one eye swollen shut, and he has two mandibles ripped clear off while a third bends, clearly broken. There is a peppering of bruises, some already swollen, marring the ridge of his forehead. Chunks of flesh hint at where great hair follicles have been torn out. She has not seen him in such a state for at least ten cycles; she stares, aghast. 

It has been many cycles since the two first met; Edge forgets how dangerous the two's line of work is. Being a killer-for-hire pays well, but it involves putting bodies on the line and dealing with evolving circumstances. Mistakes lead to failures and failures lead to death; there are no second chances or room for errors when handling hits. The morbid reality of _her_ failure and subsequent capture begins to slink in. Edge averts her gaze. “We’re going to die. I am going to die on this shithole planet with you for company.”

 _“Hey!”_ Songbird chirps at her. There’s a pause before the Yautja adds in a surprisingly serious voice, _“Ladies kill for my company. …Get it? Kill?”_

“I’ll rip your spine from your body when my hands are free.” Edge states dryly, unimpressed.

 _“Like I said—Kill for my company. Can’t deny it, Edge, c’mon,”_ the Yuatja sounds so energetic, a complete contrast to the beating he clearly took at his capture. _“You, me, a knife, we could pick up where we left off on Baltic-102t…”_

A chill runs down her spine, picking at nerves she knows she should have replaced cycles ago. The feeling converges at her hips, shifting and pooling in her abdomen at the thoughts that surface, the thoughts she swore not to reflect upon, that she swore to forget, that she outright refused to acknowledge until the damn Yautja nearby brings it up. It all rushes back to her. She hears his soft trills of laughter at her reaction. Her instinct is to keep her gaze to the side and not give into the temptation to think about the nights the two spent lost in the planet’s sprawling rainforest.

“No wonder you’re a Bad Blood. No honor.” The woman remarks.

The insult does nothing to deter Songbird. Regardless of the pain he is surely in, the Yautja clicks and chirps with merriment and humor laced in each note. _“Never agreed with the importance of ‘Honor.’ Why ya think I left, Edge?”_

“You left because you didn’t agree with the way _Ka’Torag-Na_ operates.” She butchers the clan name, but her answer is satisfactory enough to earn her a harmonious whistle.

_“Impressive. You remembered.”_

“I’d prefer if I didn’t.”

 _“Ya lie just as much as me.”_ The Yautja chortles to himself, and the transport craft falls silent between the two prisoners.

It feels heavy. Edge doesn’t want to think about what’s to come. She hopes her death will be quick, but she knows the rumors from the shadows. There are many possibilities, all as cruel and depraved as the next, when it comes to cybernetics in the dark corners of the intergalactic criminal world.

“Fuck.” Edge whispers at last, refusing to acknowledge the tears at the corners of her eyes. “What are they going to do to us?”

 _“Kill us, probably.”_ Songbird pauses.

“Kill you? Yes. But what about _me?”_ The woman asks. “You know how valuable cybernetic parts are. How many aliens want them. They’ll bleed me dry for every last piece of technology—Put me on a table and cut me open—"

 _“Won’t happen. I won’t let it.”_ Songbird cuts her off immediately. When she looks, she barely makes out the seriousness of his dark black gaze. He is focused wholly on her; only her. After a moment, the Yautja slips back into his lighter, more playful persona, chittering softly, _“Like ya would let these guys walk over you. Please, Edge. The second this craft stops, those doors open—They’re good as dead. We’ll send them off to meet the Black Hunter. Piece of cake.”_

To anyone else—It would sound reassuring, a small measure of comfort.

Edge’s brown eyes dim. “I know you’re lying.”

Songbird pauses. His shoulders slump, the following chirp a soft, _“I’m sorry.”_

The cybernetic leans her head back and hisses softly. “Me too.”


	2. too late for do-overs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dha'viath may be the biggest and most relatable dork I have ever written. I swear he actually is a decent contract killer but it's hard to function with beautiful women like Edge around. Can relate; women are amazing. (heart emoji)

He remembers when the two first met, thirty-five cycles back on Baltic-102t. The planet was a living rainforest floating in space, with intense biodiversity down to the micro-organisms that infected two of his four hearts the first week in. He had initially gone there to hunt a flying serpentine abomination, a great creature with wings clearer than glass and a five-pronged tongue littered with bacteria deadly enough to overwhelm the Yuatja’s boosted immune system.

Then _she_ came along and Dha-Viath, the walking disaster, broke his ship, broke _her_ ship using his broken ship, and forced the two to embark on an all-expense-paid excursion through Baltic-102t’s _gorgeous_ geography. What began as sheer indifference became begrudging respect, and from there…

The hover craft his body is stuck in bumps and throws his injured head to one side. His broken mandible slams into one of his metal restraints; the Bad Blood sucks in his curses and prays the other prisoner doesn’t pick up on it.

 _What I’d give to be back on Baltic-102t. Give me flying gizzard flies over this cjit any day…_ The warrior keeps his thoughts to himself. No point worrying ol’ Edge more than she already is. Though the contract killer’s got a rough edge and killer smile—literally—the Yautja can smell fear on an oomans. Poor Edge is still an ooman _technically_ , even if a greatly augmented one, and his poor Edge has slivers of fear laced in her blood.

 _Cetanu,_ he hates it when she’s afraid. Edge isn’t the kind of gal who should be afraid of anything. In all the cycles the two have bumped into each other, his Edge is a hardcore woman who doesn’t smile and prefers to snap necks to resolve her problems.

Except for when she does smile, which happened no less than forty-seven times on Baltic-102t. _He_ kept track. If the two weren’t prisoners being taken to a dump site, he would keep track now. As it stands, Edge’s smiles—though _highly_ valuable in their own right—are not an acceptable currency for either’s freedom. The Yautja puts the thought on the back burner and looks across the dark hovercraft.

He is glad its dark. He doesn’t want her to see him in this state, weak and broken like a young Unblooded the first week of training. He is meant to be a Yautja! A _cool_ guy with weapons and neat tricks and other things he is in too much pain to recall. The Bad Blood grimaces internally; he knows he is nowhere near the carefree, chipper persona he loves to enact around his Edge. He has open cuts, swollen body parts, broken bones, scales hanging half-off his skin, dried blood, a big bottle of _yikes_ at what is almost certainly death down the road… He is in bad shape. It won’t impress her. She might make a snide comment, even, knowing her morbid sense of humor and reluctance to let him see her concerned.

Except in Baltic-102t, when he fell thirty feet off a cliff into a leech-infested waterfall pool and she dove in after him to make sure he hadn’t passed out. Edge hit a rock at the base of the waterfall, and he dragged her to safety before she could drown or be leech-ified. It is the only time he recalls her saying _thank you_ to him, aside from the moment his Edge almost lost her dead bearer’s ribbon in the jungle. He trekked backward an entire day to find the brightly colored fabric scrap. It was smile number forty, and he got to hold her by the fire when night came.

He wishes they had a fire. He wants one, with heaping pelts of soft furs to wrap her and him up in. The Yautja has always fancied the romantic ideas of oomans, but one of the many reasons he left his clan and became a Bad Blood. If he had nice furs or blankets then he could wrap his arms around her and assure her everything is going to be _fine_. Even if it’s not, which it most definitely isn’t.

 _She’d be too distracted by my muscles to care,_ the Yautja thinks, pleased with his idea. _Maybe even ask to feel them. I’d let her. And then it would really be like back on Baltic! Except no bugs. Paukin’ bugs._

“Songbird.” The voice of the dark-skinned woman in question is much quieter than he expects.

It _does_ feel good to hear her nickname for him. According to his Edge, the lovely lady refers to him as a bird because he is both a, annoying as a bird, and b, his chirps, clicks, and trills are naturally harmonic, even when he is angry. He is angry, but not at Edge. He tries to think of something nice to say, but all that comes out are the melodic chirps, _“Glad ya didn’t forget me, Edge! Wonderin’ when you’d say something.”_

His natural thermal vision records her heat signature shifting where she is bound and restrained, looking toward the front of the craft where a great divider blocks out sight of the two’s captors.

“…Do you know where they’re taking us?” Edge is already focused on the developing circumstances, probably thinking of a cool way to break the two out.

Songbird decides to sigh loudly. If she isn’t gonna be loud—He will, loud and proud and out about it! His melodramatic exaggeration doesn’t hide his annoyance at being captured, because he _is_ annoyed. He shifts upright in his seat. For a second, the Yautja fumbles with his restraints, but the metal alloys are stronger than they feel and look. Strong like Edge, only Edge is far prettier and has softer lips. He remembers that part of Baltic-102t _very_ well.

In attempt to keep the conversation on track—and not let thoughts of Edge’s soft lips distract him—the Yautja offers retrospective commentary. _“Guess we messed up big, huh? They’re going through a lot of trouble for a Bad Blood and a cybernetic.”_

“That Bad Blood and cybernetic are the only ones aware of Hchrouhh’s involvement in the deaths of two aspiring political figures.” His Edge is quick on the draw to correct him. He likes that about her—Always keeping an eye out for his mistakes and taking steps to right them. They’re a team, only the two don’t work together and have a terrible habit of crossing paths no matter how much distance is spread between individual contracts. He listens attentively while the woman inquires, “No one else took the contract, did they? No one you know of?”

 _If only. We could be on Baltic right now, Edge! Me, you, a knife…_ Maybe it isn’t the best idea to say those things aloud; Songbird tucks the thought away for a time when the two aren’t being transported and presumably executed.

 _“They thought it wasn’t worth their while.”_ The Yautja hopes his irritation isn’t too noticeable. He wants to keep the mood light, keep his Edge distracted and happy. _“_ _Clearly missed out on this great escapade.”_ He whistles afterward, hoping the irony of his statement and the joy of his whistle might provoke a laugh or smile number forty-eight.

“We were set up.” Edge sounds _so_ certain! So, so certain. She’s probably right; she usually is. He’s the brawny, charismatic, _handsome_ hunter running from his past, and she is the drop-dead gorgeous technical wizard who knows how to kill a man with a pencil, the latter of which is a feat he has yet to see again despite his insistence she carry around primitive pencil technology. He is so focused on Edge’s mysterious pencil-killing skills, Songbird almost misses her add on, "Hchrouhh's making us take the fall for our clients' deaths."

 _Hchrouhh. Right. Pauk that guy._ Songbird decides to rip the man’s spine from his body if the two ever cross paths again. They probably won’t, but it is the thought that counts.

“ _Mm, that sounds right.”_ His chirps are drifting from their chipper mood, becoming more and more neutral. He tries to inject humor into the situation, adding on quickly, “ _Funny how that happens when our contracts line up.”_

He means it in the way that it is sheer, grand, _cosmic_ coincidence the two constantly run into each other despite taking different contracts on opposite ends of the universe. _That_ part is comical, utterly brilliant, and Cetanu bless the galactic deity that keeps encouraging him and Edge to spend quality time together. Unfortunately, his remark isn’t received the way he wants it to be—His lovely, strong, innovative Edge sounds _offended_ when she states blankly, “—You shouldn’t have taken it.”

 _I shouldn’t have…. Woah, woah, woah. Hold on! Edge, c’mon. That ain’t fair._ Songbird wants to trill, but the bands of metal restraints have begun to cut into his already broken, tender, swollen flesh. His pain becomes frustration as he responds.

 _“Forgive me when I say that’s a load of cjit,”_ he huffs loudly, annoyed with his lack of restraint and the literal presence of restraints. _“I don’t go out of my way to intrude on your contracts—”_

“A lie.”

The Yautja gawks at her, the darkness hiding the expression since he _knows_ she doesn’t have appropriate optical sensors augmented into her retinas or lenses. He blurts out quickly, a rising attempt to seize control of a conversation _clearly_ going badly, _“—And if I did—I wouldn’t pick one intentionally targeting your client—"_

“Another lie.”

 _“When have I ever lied to ya?”_ _On purpose,_ the alien keeps the last part to himself.

He holds his tongue when his Edge retorts. “You want the short answer or the long answer?”

Okay, this is getting out of hand. The two are enjoying what might be the _last_ chance to get quality alone time together! He needs to change the pace, set the mood, invite her for dinner or one of those movies the oomans on _Terra_ watch for ‘date night.’ He decides to trill, harmonious once more as his words blare out in musical notes with melody, _“C’mon, like you haven’t lied to me before.”_

He does not know where he is going with that.

“I am a cybernetically-augmented human who kills for a living. All I do is lie. I didn’t deny that—” While Edge’s divine voice sings out, Songbird is momentarily distracted by his body twitching and jerking erratically.

Every movement is pain. Existence is pain. He is in pain and his Edge isn’t understanding him. His will to keep his composed, carefree persona intact is beginning to fracture. He grits his teeth, momentarily losing himself to the growing pain raking through his body, “ _…Sure sounds like you’re insinuating I’m the problem. Cetanu forbid I lie occasionally!”_

Songbird regrets it immediately. He doesn’t want to upset her or cross her. He wants to do things with her, things that no Yautja with honor would ever pursue with an ooman. But fuck with ‘Honor,’ he is a Bad Blood with a heart full of longing for the woman restrained opposite him in the hover craft.

 _“_ _But I swear by the Black Hunter, Edge, I’m telling the truth.”_ He tries to double back on what he’s said before, emphasizing how he is a man who respects her space and doesn’t follow her around the galaxies like a creep. Which he doesn’t. Songbird cringes internally at a bad spike of pain, but he is able to channel his frustration into grumpy complaints under his breath before speaking to Edge. _“—I enjoy seein’ you as much the next sain’ja, but I know you can only handle so much Songbird in one evening.”_

Like on Baltic-102t, when she compared him to a _golden retriever._

“For a moment you almost made a point. Can you say anything without it being an excuse to flirt?” His Edge is growing annoyed with him now, probably in the same pain he is in.

 _No._ It is a clear, coherent thought in the overactive mind of the hunter. _No. I don’t want her in pain. No. Pauk no._

He doesn’t want her to worry about him being morose or sullen. He forces his voice to remain steady and far from the increasingly worried tone his clicks and chirps and trills wants to take, opting for an endearing angle in hopes of smile number forty-eight, _“And miss a moment with you? Never.”_

Which is also true. He doesn’t want to miss a moment with her. He isn’t a golden retriever, but he enjoys the quality time the two have together.

Except he doesn’t hear anything in response. The nervousness of messing up in front of Edge sets in, and he begins to awkwardly chitter in laughter that leaves him cringing on the inside at both the pain he is in _and_ second-hand embarrassment at himself. _Pauk. Pauk. Pauk. She won’t think I’m… Cjit. I pauked up. Damnit, Songbird. You were doing so well and now… And now… You two don’t even get to enjoy this ride together! What kind of hunter flubs a line simple as that?_

“We’re going to die,” when Edge speaks next, her voice takes him aback. He stares at her heat signature in disbelief while she continues. “I am going to die on this shithole planet with you for company.”

_Edge… That’s not… That…_

No. He can’t just let her mood plummet and make the end of all times be a rancid fest of panic and paranoia. He must keep her happy; he wants her to be _happy._ She means the world to him. Two worlds, in fact, if meaning can be measured by inhabitable planets.

“Hey!” He chirps quickly, panicking. He tries to compose himself, but all it does is make him sound serious. _“Ladies kill for my company. …Get it? Kill?”_

“I’ll rip your spine from your body when my hands are free.” The woman says, dryly.

Are they making puns now, or is she serious? Edge told him on Baltic-102t she couldn’t bring herself to kill him. Or hurt him. Except when biting him while the two rutted in the middle of a waterfall lagoon, or clawing and ripping scales out of his back while he took her by the campfire, or…

Maybe puns are the way to go. Maybe Edge just needs puns and a reminder the two have good things to look forward to eventually.

 _“—Like I said_ ,” Songbird chirps, choosing to continue the game of puns and wordy wits. _“Ladies kill for my company!”_ When Edge doesn’t acknowledge the pun, Songbird pauses and tacks on, _“You can’t deny it, Edge, c’mon.”_

Except she doesn’t reply, again, and it makes his anxiety return in droves.

_Okay. It’s okay. I can just… Pauk. Pauk. Does she want to talk about puns? Happy things? Places to go that aren’t graves dug for the living by the living? Or— Baltic-102t?_

Songbird struggles to keep his voice steady as he proposes, _“You, me, a knife, we could pick up where we left off on Baltic-102t…”_

She doesn’t respond. Songbird realizes he messed something up between them somewhere. This is the longest she’s ever gone without making a dry remark or telling him to pipe down. Or telling him other things, things that are much nicer, like that he has the body of something called _Adonis,_ which also—conveniently—took place on Baltic-102t.

Songbird trills nervously at the thought. Maybe he is the golden retriever to her not-golden retriever-ness.

“No wonder you’re a Bad Blood.” Edge says, seemingly out of the blue. “No honor.”

 _This is not the time to talk about strange philosophical concepts applied objectively across different species!_ Is what his mind _wants_ to say, but Songbird feels his mind slip back to his cheery, carefree persona. It is where he feels most comfortable and in control, as if he is not a mess of nerves in a criminal underworld. His voice dips into his sweet, harmonic chirps as he indulges her in the subject, “ _Never agreed with the importance of ‘Honor.’ Why ya think I left, Edge?”_

“You left because you didn’t agree with the way _Ka’Torag-Na_ operates.”

_She…_

His eyes are wide, massive, _huge._ Songbird stares at her heat signature. Without meaning to, incredibly loudly and with far too much enthusiasm for one about-to-be-murdered hovercraft ride, he whistles with sheer delight. _“—Impressive. You remembered.”_

“I’d prefer if I didn’t.”

It is absolutely a lie, because one of the things everyone does in the two’s field of work is _lie_ , and even if he didn’t have the experience of a trained killer, he knows her well enough to pick up when her heat signature shifts ever-so-slightly in the ear region when she lies. He feels satisfied enough to laugh at his success after he says, _“Ya lie just as much as me.”_

It becomes awkwardly quiet after, the kind that makes him feel bad about laughing or speaking up in the first place. Songbird struggles to find something to say as the hover craft continues to fly on. He knows he _should_ keep talking, it is imperative to keep his beloved Edge distracted and happy, but his throat is dry, he is terribly thirsty, and he doubts his captors have any water on hand. He can’t think of the right thing to say to make everything _better_ and _less bad_ , so for a time he remains quiet.

“Fuck.” The word sucks all the life out of him. “What are they going to do to us?”

It comes from Edge. _His Edge._ His tough-as-nails, kickass, ready to kill a man with a _pencil_ Edge. Something is wrong in her voice. It makes him more of a mess than he already is, his words blurting out on their own like his tongue suddenly gains sentience and declares revolution, “ _Kill us, probably.”_

 _Why would you say that? Why would you say the obvious! Pauk! Pauk! That is—This is—Pauk! All pauk, cjit, no good, nope…_ His thoughts spiral. He struggles to get the under control. The restraints feel tighter than before.

“Kill you? Yes. But what about _me?”_ The bravest, strongest, most capable killer he knows silences him with the first question. Everything else is a mess—Her own mess, Edge’s mess, a mess he can’t help her with. _“—_ You know how valuable cybernetic parts are. How many aliens want them. They’ll bleed me dry for _every last_ piece of technology—Put me on a table and cut me open—"

 _“Won’t happen! I won’t allow it,”_ He finds the restraints increase in pain, in tightness, and it occurs to him it is due to his sudden struggling to try and get out, get close, protect her, comfort her, keep Edge safe—Songbird is still when he realizes it won’t work. He can’t break free. He can’t reach her. He needs to do something. Their captors can kill him, fine, he’ll go to Cetanu with his head held high—But her? _Her?_

 _Not her. Not her. Not her._ He wants to scream it aloud, but it will only draw ire. It won’t give her comfort or hope or happiness. He can’t help her or himself. He can only try to make her feel better when the time comes for them to cross over.

He tries, too. He tries to revert to his preferred persona, the one of a mellow, relaxed man who has his _cjit_ together, the one who is confident in all they do, together. He tries with every bit of heart and passion in his voice, his feelings, his will to do something to keep her spirits up.

 _“_ I know you’re lying.”

Edge is good at figuring him out. It’s one of the things he loves about her.

Right now, it is one of the things that pulls at his heartstrings, drawing guilt, drawing grief, and drawing remorse into his chest as he clicks softly, _“I’m sorry.”_

“Me too.” She whispers, soft and real and sweet and far, far away from him.

The contract was a set-up, and it’s too late for do-overs.


End file.
